


love songs

by takingoffmyshoes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Kind of Meta but not really?, Love, Multi, Multimedia, Music, Reflection and Contemplation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-06-26 10:08:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19765990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: five types of love, inspired by eric whitacre’s “five hebrew love songs.”





	love songs

**Author's Note:**

> for my dear Malin, and for the many kinds of love.
> 
> the hebrew text in each segment hyperlinks to audio of the song, and the snippets of analysis come from [this article](https://etd.lis.nsysu.edu.tw//ETD-db/ETD-search/view_etd?URN=etd-0721108-170912).
> 
> these are meant to be read slowly - not necessarily aloud, but about at that pace - as you listen to the songs. ideally, the cadence and emotions of the text will match up with the movement of the music, but there are so many variables involved that I know it won’t be perfect for everyone.

[תמונה](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpXn-HnNYaE)

(remembered love)

_“The first song, Temuna（A Picture）depicts the refined and subtle love inside a person's heart, just like an imprint left in one’s mind.”_

There’s not much to say about it. The others know that it has value to him, that he wears it almost as religiously as Aramis wears his cross, but they don’t know what it means, and he can’t bring himself to tell them.

Part of him, the part that knows these men as brothers and knows their minds better than his own, knows that they would not be repulsed by him. They would defend him, grieve with him, and never speak a word against his honour. 

It is not, then, for fear of reproach that he keeps silent on it, for whose reproach could be greater than his own?

He drowns in it, writhes in it, longs to die in it, but it is not in the locket.

That simple piece of jewelry is the only place where the hatred does not lie. He wears it as comfort, not punishment, that he may look at it and remember that once there was light. He doesn’t wear it to remind himself of what he lost, or what he did; he wears it to remind himself of what he had - what happiness, what joy, what peace. It did not last, of course, but he cannot bear to pretend that it never existed. 

The pressed blue flowers are not an admission of weakness, but a fragile tie to fading remembrances of love.

He cannot risk losing that, and so he carries the locket as he carries her memory: with guilt, with regret, and with a wistful longing for the far-distant days of his happiness.

_A picture is engraved in my heart;_  
_Moving between light and darkness:_  
_A sort of silence envelopes your body_  
_And your hair falls upon your face just so_

. . .

[כל כלה](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VR3qjiCVctU)

(defiant love)

_“The second song, Kala Kalla（Light Bride）describes a newly married man's expectation for love, and exquisitely expresses his eagerness for love.”_

She doesn’t see Treville enter the chapel, of course: her eyes are for none but the young man standing before her.

But when the ceremony is complete, and they turn as one to face the small congregation, something has shifted. When she learns that it is war, long a distant threat but suddenly immediate, for an instant she is stunned. That such a thing should happen, that the world should be so at odds when she herself is in such perfect happiness, seems impossible. But then she thinks of what it means for her, for _them_ , and first there is fear, but then there is fury.

She kisses him again, passionately, fiercely, on the verge of indecently, and ignores Porthos’ whistle in favour of d’Artagnan’s muffled moan.

“Worry about the war tomorrow,” she breathes in his ear when she breaks away. “Today is for _us.”_

He’s flushed, no doubt as heady as she is, and there’s that well-loved and oft despaired-of glint of mischief in his eye.

Back at the garrison, news of war has brought down a mixture of dread and anticipation, and her resolve falters in the face of it. Many of these men will go off to fight, and most of them will kill, and some of them will die. Is it not wrong to ask them to celebrate, to expect them to feel her happiness as she does, when so terribly soon they will have to suffer as she cannot even imagine?

But when Porthos strides in behind them, and bellows for wine and music, the men are quick to rally. Perhaps they, too, feel the need for some rebellion, some defiance against the grey and gloom threatening to consume them.

It is both a wedding party and a war party, with toasts and cheers and speeches, and stories of heroes and battles, and singing and dancing and drinking. She is awash in the newness of it, but knowing that it’s _for_ her, and _with_ her, makes it that much more exhilarating, so she lets herself be carried along on the current, buoyed by the spirits of others.

Through it all, d’Artagnan remains a constant presence at her side, looking at her like she’s the moon and he can’t get enough of her light. If this is only to last a night, then she must take as much of him as she can, just as he is taking of her. She kisses him often and sweetly, and relishes the feel of his arm around her waist, the warmth of his chest against her back, the tenderness of his touch as he cups her jaw or brushes a lock of unruly hair out of her eyes.

He is hers, now, and she will ensure that he doesn’t forget it.

Darkness falls, but lamps and candles and torches are lit, and the revelry continues. The voices get louder, the music gets faster, and the wine flows more freely - before long, she is drunk, dancing and spinning and laughing with sheer, unbridled joy, as the lights blur to brilliance around her.

  
_Light bride_  
_She is all mine,_  
_And lightly_  
_She will kiss me!_

. . .

[לרוב](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6G5uOPC-L4)

(forgiving love)

_“The third song, Larov（Mostly）uses roof and sky as the main characters, and tactfully takes the close distance between them as a metaphor for the subtle distance between two lovers, which is both close and far.”_

The inky blue sky is dusted with stars, Aramis a dark space among them.

He sighs when he sees him, but it sounds like “come closer.”

Porthos settles down beside him, and it sounds like “I’m listening.”

Aramis leans against him, and it feels like “forgive me.”

Porthos puts an arm around his his shoulders, and it feels like “I have.”

And slowly, quietly, two souls return to one.

_"Mostly," said the roof to the sky,_  
_"the distance between you and I is endlessness;_  
_But a while ago two came up here,_  
_And only one centimeter was left between us."_

. . .

[איזה שלג](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8vRs4f6arI)

(wondrous love)

_“The fourth song, Eyze Sheleg!（What Snow!）associates the falling snowflakes with the frequently appearing perfect hopes, just like the joy of love approaching trippingly.”_

He awakes to the absence of the tolling of bells, a peaceful silence settled deeply in his soul. He stands, and goes to his window as if in a dream. 

Perfect, tiny flakes of snow drift down from an endless sky, and some urge he cannot name pulls at him. He follows it down the steps and through the halls of the monastery, still unsure if he’s dreaming or awake, until he steps out into the courtyard. His soft shoes crunch on a fine layer of snow more felt than heard, and the air is crisp through his cassock, but though the silence is complete, he does not feel afraid.

Looking up into the sky is dizzying, like he’s flying forward rather than rooted to the ground, and wonder bubbles up in him until it spills out in a laugh. Standing here, face turned to the sky as the snow falls around him, the beast that wakes at Savoy slumbers on, and he feels as if he’s truly woken for the first time. 

The fear that’s haunted him so long has, at least for now, withdrawn enough to let him marvel at this beauty.

_Thank you, Lord,_ his heart sings, _for this beautiful world, and for the gifts of wonder You have given us, even those who are not worthy._

_What snow! ___  
_Like little dreams_  
_Falling from the sky._  


. . .

[רכות](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-ClUmIRft4)

(comforting love)

_“The fifth song, Rakut（Tenderness）depicts the simple, honest, sincere and direct love that cannot be described by mere words.”_

“Come here,” d’Artagnan whispers into the dark of the night, the hopelessness, the war.

“Come here,” he breathes, words carried in the wind that howls around the tents and beats against the canvas and tears into his soul.

“Come here,” he says, eyes as soft as his voice and arms as open as his heart, and Athos falters in the face of them — but like the tide to the moon, he is drawn in, and like a frightened child, he seeks shelter inside of them.

“Come here,” d’Artagnan whispers into his hair, pulling him closer and closer until there is no place for Athos’ forehead but on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, nowhere for his hands to be but over d’Artagnan’s beating heart, no room for the miserable, choking grief between his ribs and d’Artagnan’s firm embrace.

“Come here,” he breathes, and holds him.

“Come here,” he says — 

— and Athos, for the first time that he can easily remember, lets himself be held until the cold iron of his blood turns once more to warmth and the rigid terror of his spine wilts once more to softness.

_He was full of tenderness;_  
_She was very hard._  
_And as much as she tried to stay thus,_  
_Simply, and with no good reason,_  
_He took her into himself_  
_And set her down_  
_In the softest, softest place._

. . .

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for giving this a chance! I'd love to hear what you thought of it.


End file.
